


The Seven Kinds of Love

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: And because it's me, Angst, Brother Feels, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Goodness these are not my usual tags, Love, No Sex, No Smut, Not just romantic love, OTP Feels, Other, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, just love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six dwarves and one hobbit saying “I love you”. A small Valentine’s Day present to the wonderful Hobbit fandom, which welcomed me about a year ago! Over the next week, I will be posting a daily drabble for each of The Seven Kinds of Love: <br/>Storge (family love), <br/>Pragma (love which endures), <br/>Philia (shared experience), <br/>Philautia (self-respect), <br/>Ludus (flirting), <br/>Eros (romantic love) <br/>and Agape (love of humanity).<br/>Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Storge (family love)

Fíli held his finger to his lips when Dwalin and Balin approached and nodded towards Kíli who had slumped against his shoulder, snoring softly, exhausted after their hurried march to Erebor. Balin smiled although his eyes remained sad, and both of them stepped more softly. Not that it was necessary; Kíli had always had an uncanny ability to sleep through just about anything. Not that Fíli had ever used that to his advantage.

“You need your sleep, laddie,” Balin said quietly. “Come to bed now, both of you.”

“No, I’ll stay here,” Fíli whispered back, pointing towards the endless expanse of gold below. “Just in case Thorin... needs me...”

“He does not need you,” Dwalin replied with a huff. “He doesn’t know you’re here and I’m starting to doubt he even knows who you are or who he is for that matter.”

Fíli sighed and looked down from the balcony to see his uncle erratically sifting through piles of treasure. It was well past midnight by now, but Thorin showed no sign of slowing down, driven by some invisible power, some foreign energy. Dwalin was probably right, he had no idea that his sister-sons were keeping watch, and if he had known he only would have ordered them to come down to aid him in his feverish search.

“Come to bed, Fíli,” Balin repeated, concern evident in his voice. “You have done enough for one day. Do not torture yourself unduly.”

Unduly... no, not unduly, certainly not that. This was his place; this was where he should be. Fíli smiled, but shook his head. He would stay here with his uncle.

“Could you take him with you?” he asked, glancing up at Dwalin. “Kíli should spend the night in a nice warm bed, after all he has been through.”

Dwalin grunted his approval and bent to pick up Kíli’s prone form. He lifted him as if he were still a weightless babe and when Kíli snuggled into his furs the same way he had when he was still a dwarfling, Dwalin smiled at him with great fondness. Kíli would never be alone as long as he had Dwalin. The thought comforted Fíli.

Dwalin retreated without further comment, but Balin tried to convince Fíli to retire once more. In the end, Fíli silenced him with nothing more than a raised hand and a shake of his head. He would not be swayed in this; this was a personal matter, a family matter. He sighed in relief when Balin’s footsteps grew fainter in the distance. The great chamber was silent except for Thorin’s frantic hunt that caused small avalanches of gold to cascade down mountains of treasure every now and again. Fíli knew by now that there was no point in interrupting him. He had tried to coax him into eating some broth earlier on, only to have it thrown into his face along with a barrage of insults. Bilbo had cried after that particular outburst and the others had stared at him in horror, but Fíli had merely wiped his face and declared that Thorin was not hungry. He was his mother’s brother and Fíli would defend his dignity to the last.

Curses echoed through the vast chamber and Fíli watched his childhood hero fling large gems across the room in rapid succession. Thorin was sick and it was evident that he needed help, but there seemed to be nothing they could do, as nothing was able to penetrate the armour of madness that had wrapped itself around his mind. There was nothing he could do, nothing but sit here, shrouded in the darkness, watching his uncle wrestle with the sickness.

Fíli remembered the nights when his uncle used to stay up with him. He had often been poorly as a child, back when their home in the Ered Luin had been nowhere near as prosperous as it was now, and while his mother had nursed him during the day, it was usually Thorin who sat with him during the night. They had spent many a night in the lounge together, Fíli wrapped in blankets on the settee and Thorin sitting in the armchair, sometimes singing to him, sometimes telling him a story, but often just drawing on his pipe in silence, just being there. His uncle was not as jovial and warm as his father had been, on the contrary, he was stern and had high demands, but Fíli still felt safe and treasured when Thorin was with him.

Now Thorin treasured only the Arkenstone and was a danger both to himself and to others. Fíli was not frightened of his uncle, but he would not leave anyone alone with him at the moment. This was not Thorin, not the real Thorin at any rate. He had changed. He had been unusually harsh and unyielding throughout their quest, but Fíli had taken that as a sign of the pressure and the desire to see them all safely to Erebor. But now Thorin seemed to have been consumed by the dragon sickness. Fíli watched him stumble through the treasure hoard, increasingly unsteady on his feet as exhaustion finally caught up with him, sinking to his knees numerous times before he eventually fell to the ground and remained there.

Fíli gave him several minutes, but when Thorin did not stir, he quietly made his way down to him. He was asleep, bedded on gold in what looked like a supremely uncomfortable position. With a sigh, Fíli knelt next to him, brushing back a lock of greying hair from the drawn, gaunt face. Somewhere in there was his uncle, the renowned warrior, great leader, talented smith, and devoted father figure. He removed his own cloak and spread it over the sleeping dwarf.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered. “I’ll keep the others safe from you, and I’ll keep you safe from yourself. I love you, Uncle.”


	2. Pragma

**Pragma (love which develops over a long time period, love which endures)**

 

“Dís,” he called softly. “It’s time to wake up, Dís.”

He had spoken as gently as he could, but she still woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in the large stone bed, eyes wide, but unseeing. Her fingers were searching for the dagger she kept underneath her pillow.

“You are safe,” he assured her, keeping his voice low and even. “Nobody else is here. You are safe, Dís.”

Her eyes finally focused on him.

“Dwalin,” she croaked. “I... I thought...”

“Shh, it’s alright, you are safe,” he repeated. He moved slowly towards her, cautiously setting the tray down on the nightstand, then perching on the edge of the bed, careful to give her plenty of space. She did not flinch and he counted that as a success, though she still eyed him warily.

“May I?” Dwalin asked, gesturing towards a pillow. It took Dís a moment to understand his request, but then she nodded and leaned forward slightly so he could stuff the cushion behind her back. Her bones often hurt her and she would be more comfortable that way. With a gentle hand on her shoulder, he helped her recline again.

“Thank you,” Dís breathed and Dwalin smiled down at her.

“I brought you some breakfast,” he said. “Some eggs...”

She shook her head wearily and Dwalin felt his heart sink.

“Some porridge maybe?” he asked, trying to tempt her into eating something, anything. “I added extra honey for you.”

“No, thank you,” Dís declined softly, her voice constricted with unshed tears. “It’s not... it’s this day... I don’t feel I could... I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be,” he soothed. “I did not mean to upset you. It’s quite alright. You don’t need to eat.”

In fact, she really needed to eat, but he knew not to force the issue. They sat in silence for a while; Dís’ gaze drifting off into the distance as it did so often. One of her hands crept out from underneath the blankets and grabbed his fingers. Her touch was so light, almost fragile. Tenderly, Dwalin stroked the pale, paper-thin skin with his thumb.

“Do you think you could manage some tea?” he asked, careful not to pressure her into anything.

“Aye,” Dís confirmed, finally meeting his eyes again. “I’d quite like some.”

He handed her the mug and she took a small sip of the steaming liquid. There was probably enough sugar in that cup to count as half a meal, just the way she liked it. She drank in silence, but soon her hands started to waver, even the simple act of holding the cup draining her energy. He helped her.

Dwalin felt better once she had some sugar in her system, something to keep her going through this difficult day. He helped her out of bed and made sure she was steady on her feet before he retreated to let her get ready in her own time. He snuck two oatcakes from the tray into his pockets just in case Dís needed some sustenance later on.

He knew she liked to be the first one there, well in advance of the official ceremony, but he did not rush her, even though it took Dís a long time to make herself presentable. She was slower than she used to be, but it did not matter. They would not be disturbed; he had made sure of that.

Dís wore a long dress of heavy brocade decorated with the insignia of her house and had arranged her mithril hair in the simple braids that Thorin had favoured. She did not wear any jewellery, never had since she had learned of her brother’s fate, except for Kíli’s hair clasp and Fíli’s moustache beads. She had been beautiful, the most desirable dwarrowdam west of the Misty Mountains before her marriage. Many a dwarf would have given his sword hand to be in Jóli’s place. Even as she aged and became a mother, she was still admired for her stunning good looks, for the light she seemed to radiate. That light had been extinguished. She was shrunken, diminished, her spine bent when once she had stood almost as tall as Thorin. In Dwalin’s eyes she was still beautiful.

He offered her his arm and she did not decline it, leaning onto it gratefully. Their way down to the crypts was slow and cumbersome. By the time they stood before the tombs, Dwalin was practically carrying Dís. He held her in a firm embrace, waiting for her limbs to stop shaking and for the hammering of her heart to slow.

“You are safe,” he repeated his usual mantra, whispering it into her hair. “You are safe here. I’ve got you.”

Gradually, she relaxed. She did not come here often and it was taxing for her, both physically and mentally, to do so. He had done what he could to ease her bodily discomfort, spreading cushions on the stone floor for her to kneel on in front of each of the tombs.

As usual, she went to Fíli’s stone first, her first-born son and first to leave this world. After all those years, there was not much to be said, nothing new to be mentioned, but Dís caressed the runes of his name as gently as if she was touching an infant. She whispered endearments to her eldest, repeating his true, Khuzdul name again and again. It was so much richer, so much more meaningful than the outer name he had been known by and buried under.

Dwalin stood behind her like a guard on duty, even though there was nothing he could do to ward off the terror she felt. He helped her up when she parted from Fíli and moved on to Kíli. Tears slid down his face as he heard her call out for her baby. Dís clawed at the stone, not in the desperate manner of those early years, but as if she was begging to be let in, to gain access to the hidden world that held her cherished sons. And Dwalin knew in his heart that her wish would soon be fulfilled.

Finally, Dís moved on to the largest of the three tombs, the grave of Thorin, King under the Mountain, brother, uncle, friend. She did not kneel here, she merely stood, palms flat upon the stone, pressing her forehead against the unyielding marble.

“Why?” she asked, voice rough and full of tears. Dwalin did not know, and doubted that even she knew what she was asking Thorin. Why did he lead her sons to their deaths? Why did he die? Why did he ever set out to reclaim Erebor? Why did he succumb to madness? So many questions, but never any answers.

Dís sobbed and Dwalin gathered her into his arms, gently rocking her too-thin body. She buried her face in his tunic. It should have been me, Dwalin thought, not for the first time, it should have been me in that tomb and all of this could have been avoided. But he knew that his wish would never be fulfilled, that even though he was not the one she wanted or needed, he was the only one left to take care of Dís. Today was the twentieth anniversary of the battle, twenty years to the day since she had lost her entire family. She had fought valiantly since then, battling every day just for a reason to breathe and get out of bed in the morning. If Mahal was willing, she would find relief soon.

“I’ve got you, Dís,” he reassured her. “I’m right here and I won’t ever let go of you. You are safe here. I’ll always be here with you, Dís, because I love you.”


	3. Philia

**Philia (brotherhood, shared experience)**

 

One last time. He knew it would truly be the last time, whether or not they survived this battle, he would never ask anything of them again, not of these loyal dwarves who had done so much for him and who even now rallied behind him, even after he had declared their lives cheap, their bodies expendable, their spirits inconsequential, in his all-encompassing madness. They were following him one last time.

“Show them, let them hear there are some dwarves in Erebor brave enough to challenge them,” he said, nodding to Bombur in encouragement.

The rotund dwarf smiled and climbed the crooked staircase up the ramparts to herald the last rallying of the dwarven forces. Maybe the position would offer him a little protection from the carnage they were about to join. Thorin hoped it might. Bombur had a wife and children whom he was very fond of and desperate to return to. Mahal, grant him that small favour, he has suffered enough in my service.

They all had. He looked at them now, old and young, noble and lowborn, but all united in an identical purpose, on one quest. A quest for what? For gold that drove their leader mad? Hardly. He hoped he had given them a reason to fight now, not for him personally, but for the wider good, which he attempted to bring about. It was not in his nature to apologise, as he felt that mere words would do nought to patch up the wounds he had hewn, but he hoped that his actions would offer some healing, that giving his people a place among all those who stood against evil and darkness, to ensure that, no matter the outcome of this battle, they would be an honourable and respected people once more, might overcome some of the hurts he had caused.

They had shared in so many adventures and they were all here now. He often felt apprehensive before battles, the interminable waiting grating on his nerves, but not so today; today he glanced upon his company with great fondness and did not tire of admiring their devotion. They really had become a band of brothers. It was no longer just brothers by blood who stood together. Kíli was enveloping Bofur in a fierce hug, a prince of Durin and a lowly miner, united as family. Dwalin, his fearsome warrior, was gently head-butting a shaking Ori, reassuring the young scribe in a low voice as Glóin watched them fondly.

Thorin caught Dwalin’s glance over Ori’s shoulder. They nodded to each other and Thorin hoped that his eyes could convey at least a little of what he felt for his brother-in-arms. They had stopped saying their farewells a long time ago. This was hardly the first suicide mission on which Dwalin had willingly and knowingly followed him and by now they knew each other’s adieus by heart; there was no reason for them to repeat them time and time again. As the two most experienced warriors, it was their task to ensure everybody else was as well and as well-prepared as they possibly could be, to give them a bit of the peace that they felt, although Thorin would not want any one of them to go to their deaths quite as calmly and willingly as he did. They deserved life and health and happiness.

Bifur, Óin and Dori gave the signal that they were ready to release the great bell. They were staunch older warriors that Thorin liked to have as a rear-guard for their sortie. Despite everything he had subjected them to, they were still eager to follow him. Maybe it was not despite, but because of what they had been through that there was such a feeling of togetherness, of belonging here now, in that desolate mountain with the din of battle echoing from beyond the wall, the screams of the injured and dying mingling in a cacophony of destruction. He had no right to ask this of them, but they still came, they still believed in their bond of fellowship.

His nephews walked up to him, Kíli on the brink between apprehension and excitement, Fíli solemn and collected. So different from each other and yet both were equal parts of the greatest treasure he had ever know. No gold, no gems could ever replace the great affection he felt for his nephews, and now that feeling seemed to extend to all the members of his company. How he had forgotten that before, he did not know.

His sister-sons stood next to him now and for all of their differences, they both looked at him with determination. They were right behind him in this. Kíli positioned himself at Thorin’s left, but Fíli gently nudged him in the opposite direction.

“Budge over, little one,” he said firmly, but not unkindly.

“Oi, I’m not little!” Kíli complained. “And certainly you should be uncle’s right-hand man, crown-prince of Erebor and all that!”

Fíli shook his head.

“This is your place,” he said, and when Kíli looked like he wanted to argue against that statement, he nimbly switched his sword to his left hand and explained. “This formation provides the highest level of protection if the outside of the triangle is the most strongly defended.”

Thorin smiled. He had been wrong, Fíli did not need to be king to understand, he had an innate capacity for selflessness and put the good of others above anything else much more easily than he himself ever had. If he died today, he would leave Erebor in more than capable hands, for the good of all her people. He nodded at Fíli, no words, just a silent appreciation of all that his heir had done for him and gratitude to him for taking the most difficult position in this attack.

Dwalin stood behind Fíli, the second ambidextrous dwarf in his company also joining the more challenging side of their formation, ready to join battle and to protect both his king and his prince. That left Kíli’s right as the remaining weak spot. Ori was standing next to him, and Thorin did not want to discourage him, as the little scribe had shown great fortitude and ferocity in their previous fights, but he inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when Nori stepped between Kíli and Ori. Relief and surprise. Nori was his own dwarf and had made it quite clear on several occasions that he had only joined them because it was the least unpleasant alternative and gave him a chance to be with his brothers. Nori did not need a leader, and he certainly did not need a king, in fact the desire to challenge and disrespect authority seemed to be at the very core of his being. Dwalin and Nori had worked on opposite sides of the law for decades, which had led to some tensions between them before, but now Nori occupied the same place of high honour and high danger on the right wing that Dwalin held on the left.

The great horn bellowed overhead and Thorin looked back one last time. They were all there. His eyes locked with Nori’s, trying to portray his thanks, and the former thief gave him a smirk, signing ‘brothers’ in rapid Iglishmêk, then, after a minute pause, drawing a small circle with his forefingers – ‘Everyone’.

We are all in this together, Thorin thought, and no matter what happens; I shall never forget that again. I love them, all of them.


	4. Philautia

**Philautia (self-respect, joy in being yourself)**

 

Now that was disgusting. Seriously disgusting. And who would have thought that gold could ever be disgusting? But just the sheer amount of it! A pocketful of the stuff would have done Bofur quite nicely, but piles of it, nay, mountains, entire mountain ranges, whole worlds of gold? That was disgusting! A bit obscene really. That gold could have fed so many families through more long winters than they were ever likely to experience. There was just so much of it, the mere thought of having to count it made him scratch his head – let the smarter ones deal with that issue!

Bofur wasn’t smart and he freely acknowledged it. He left the thinking to those members of the company who had the head for it, who seemed to enjoy the brooding. He didn’t enjoy it, so he didn’t do it, simple as that. It wasn’t that he was entirely daft either, actually he had always managed quite nicely, kept the family together, kept them fed and under a roof most of the time, and had his fair share of fun doing so. And he certainly wasn’t as mad as Thorin!

That guy had just completely snapped, gone cuckoo, lost his marbles, flown off the handle, blown his top. Mad as a bat! Seriously, though, what an absolute nutter! He hadn’t seemed all that bad in the beginning, always pretty grumbly and stern, but a nice enough guy underneath it all. Not that Bofur hadn’t warned Jóli when he first got involved with Dís. No, messing with royalty was never a good idea! Too much inbreeding in the royal line, they said, but Jóli countered that that was a pretty good reason for him to be getting involved with Dís – those Durins should thank him, really, for injecting some fresh blood into their treasured line. Well, too bad his efforts had come too late for Thorin! The lads seemed alright though, Bofur had even seen them play around with a couple of golden harps while they were pretending to search for that stupid stone. Now, if Bofur had had any hand in raising them, they would have just given a wee concert there and then, but you probably couldn’t ask for that much from some princes. They were nobles after all, not sensible folk.

Oh the all-important nobles! Bofur didn’t kid himself into thinking that Thorin would have taken him and his family along for the quest if he’d had any choice. Fair enough though, because Bofur wouldn’t have come along and dragged his brother and cousin with him, if he’d had any choice. Thorin needed followers, Bofur needed gold, it had seemed a pretty good deal for both of them, but by now Bofur seriously doubted that he ever really needed any gold at all, and as for fellowship, well mad king Thorin could stick that right up his royal arse along with that shiny jewel. Because Bofur was done with that nonsense! He was supposed to be searching for the thing, but had found himself a quiet corner where he was hiding behind a particularly impressive pile of glimmering garbage, occasionally shifting a few pieces here or there to make a bit of noise. He had gotten quite good at that technique down the mines. Not like he minded work, not at all, he actually quite enjoyed it and nothing tasted better than a cold pint after a day of heavy labour, but some foremen were just ridiculous in their demands and any sensible dwarf would put up a bit of a silent protest. Actually, thinking about it, he was quite a sensible dwarf.

Well, them nobles hadn’t thought so. Oh no, they did not mingle with mere mortals, clumsy commoners, oh the horror! Glóin had scowled at them, careful to keep his well-filled purse out of reach, and Óin had haughtily declared himself ‘disconcerted’ by Bifur’s condition. Dwalin mainly just glowered, because that’s what Dwalin did best. The lads looked at them like they were exotic animals and Balin had been very nice right up to the point when he had realised that Bofur could neither read nor sign that ridiculously long contract. Not his fault that he had never had any schooling! Some people actually had to work to put food on the table every day, and with a younger brother like Bombur, there always had to be plenty of food on the table, so Bofur had gone into the mines at an early age. And he had done well down there, made some excellent friends, worked his way up through the ranks a bit, just never far enough to make ends meet or so he had thought. Which was what had landed him in this truly royal mess!

If there was one thing that Bofur was proud of, it was how he had managed to change the opinions of those nobles. Dwalin had embraced him like a brother when they arrived from Laketown. Not his precious princes first, no, he went straight for the lowly miner. Not bad! Well, now, Bofur wasn’t quite as proud of that as he was of his family, but it was quite something to be mates with somebody like Dwalin. Dwalin seemed to recognise that somebody with a bit of common sense was exactly what was needed on this quest. Common sense and the gift of the gab. Bofur had plenty of both and he certainly wasn’t reluctant to share. Actually, he had been quite useful on this entire adventure. Quite useful? More like extremely useful. Getting those weeds for Kíli in Laketown, challenging that nasty goblin king, singing that little ditty at Rivendell... Aye, extremely useful sounded about right!

He came upon a tarnished mirror that was leaning against a column of that magnificent green marble. The heavy gold frame explained why the dragon had kept it here. There was a crack in the glass, but that did not keep Bofur from admiring the dashing young dwarf that smiled back at him. Poor, low-born, from a rag-tag family, not the smartest, nor the bravest, but actually quite the success story.

“You know what, mate, you’re a pretty decent fellow,” he said to his reflection, watching it smirk at him. Then they blew each other a kiss. “Pretty decent if I say so myself. You know what – I love you!”


	5. Ludus

**Ludus (flirting, playful affection)**

 

“Stop it, Kíli!” Fíli exclaimed and Kíli could practically _hear_ him roll his eyes even though they were in different cells. “You are an embarrassment!”

“Oi, just being friendly to our kindly hosts,” Kíli shouted back in mock offense.

“I could have anything down my trousers,” Fíli replied in a sultry whimper that Kíli could have sworn sounded nothing like his own voice.

“Or nothing,” Bofur said sternly, joining the conversation. They all laughed.

“Oh, she cut your beard there, lad,” Dwalin said with a low chuckle. How he had heard anything over the din of his own shouting and banging was anybody’s guess. “Mind, not like you’ve got much of a beard to begin with.”

“Leave the beard alone! Good things come to those who wait!”

“Maybe that’s the reason he likes elves,” Fíli mused. “Finally there’s a lass who has less luck growing a beard than Kíli!”

“What was that about them elves?” Bofur asked teasingly. “Didn’t you say ‘too thin... high cheekbones and creamy skin... not enough facial hair for me’, Kíli?”

Alright, so she _was_ too thin, and there was the thing about the cheekbones and the skin and the lack of beard and everything. Right enough, she wasn’t what you would call a traditional beauty. But she wasn’t that bad either, _not bad at all_ , actually.

“Shut it, you eejits,” he grumbled, which made them laugh even louder.

“At least he’s found himself a maid this time around,” Dwalin guffawed. “Getting there, laddie, next step is to be able to tell the difference between a proper dwarrowdam and a prissy elf!”

“She’s not prissy!”

Well, it gave them something to talk about. And it gave Kíli something to think about, which was good because being imprisoned was just about the most boring thing he had ever had to do and he had had to suffer through many history lessons with Balin which he would have sworn were the most boring thing in the world. Fantasising about that stunner of an elven guard was certainly more entertaining than memorising genealogies. So Kíli sat there and thought about this flame-haired beauty. Oh all of that hair... despite the lack of a proper beard, she certainly had a lot of gorgeous hair. He could run his fingers through that, maybe even give her a little braid. She’d have to be sitting down for that though, Elves were just so unreasonably tall.

It helped that she took her guard rounds very seriously and walked past Kíli’s cell as regularly as clockwork. He would always smile at her and wink, and sometimes he even made a little comment, usually a compliment that earned him ridicule from the others afterwards. She never answered, but there was a smile on her lips and her gaze seemed to linger on him just a little longer than on any of the others.

She came to him in the night and now if that wasn’t a sign of success, he didn’t know what could have been! He gave her his biggest puppy dog eyes, the ones that even Thorin could not resist and oh she just about melted into a big mushy puddle of gorgeous elvishness. She was adorable like that, certainly something to brighten this miserable little prison cell! Well, their conversation was cut short by that blond pretty-boy, who had no sense of timing or common decency, and most certainly suffered from a bit of a jealousy issue. Goodness, those Elves were a bunch of stuck-up pricks! Not _all_ of them, obviously.

“Dwaawaaaa,” came an imitation of a fiddle sound from Bofur’s direction and then he crooned. “There’s romance in the air, ooh, it’s sweet like the blossoms in spring.”

“For Mahal’s sake, Kíli, she’s an _Elf_ ,” Fíli said, sounding seriously annoyed now. “They probably have laws against getting it on with anyone who is less than a thousand years old. Stop being a pest!”

“Oh shut up, Fíli, it’s just a game! She seems to like it alright,” Kíli defended himself. “I didn’t hear _her_ complaining!”

“You probably woke something in her,” Dwalin said earnestly, but then erupted into laughter once more. “Maternal instincts most likely! You are like a babe in arms to her!”

“Oh, but wait until she makes to change his nappies,” Bofur crowed delightedly. “She is going to have a right surprise waiting for her _there_!”

“Shut up!” Kíli shouted, desperately trying to keep them from making lewd comments about the sweet Elf. “It’s not like that!”

There was little time for fun and games after that. Events started to unfold so quickly that Kíli had a hard time keeping up. Bilbo got them all out of the cells and into the barrels and next thing Kíli knew they were in the water, speeding down the river until they reached that rotten gate. No need for that, no need _at all!_ The orcs were upon them then and one of them shot him. It hurt, it hurt so much, but then Tauriel was there and at least he got to see her again and he had the sweet memories of their play to brighten his spirits. Then he fell, trying to reach his brother, and the arrow snapped as it hit the barrel, the tip tearing through his flesh. Kíli groaned and fought to retain consciousness, which seemed a lost cause until he spotted his flame-haired beauty again. The pain, the pain was so bad, but now there was a reason to keep fighting.

Their eyes only met for a brief moment, as she fought off orcs and Kíli was dragged down the river in his barrel. He touched his hand to his heart, the way he had seen the elves do. It seemed oddly formal, but to Tauriel it meant something, quite a lot of somethings apparently, as it caused her to blush furiously, her face almost matching the colour of her hair. He winked at her despite the pain he was in and mouthed

“I love you.”


	6. Eros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a soundtrack for this chapter, I recommend some Scottish ceilidh music. Dances mentioned here are adapted versions of ‘Dashing White Sergeant’ and ‘Orcadian Strip the Willow’. Youtube videos of the latter don’t quite do the speed and physical nature of it justice. If you come and visit Edinburgh over Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve) I’ll spin you down the main road to illustrate it!  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Eros (romantic and erotic love)**

 

Dís had never really wanted to be one of the big folk. Men seemed quite shallow, not very talented and dreadfully uncouth compared to Dwarves, and the way they treated their womenfolk was appalling. She also had no desire to pop out a dozen or more kids, as they were wont to do. The life of the Dwarves was a lot more appealing. Just not when it came to dancing. Dancing, that was the one thing that was definitely better in the world of Men. She had watched them, although she had never had the chance to join in with them, had seen them hold each other closely, eyes only for their partners, swaying and twirling with the music for hours on end. Vertical bedsports, Thorin had called it derisively, mumbling something about decency and getting a room. He really was a dreadful prude. Undoubtedly glowering in the corner somewhere right now, staring into his drink or else keeping an eye on her. Like she would have any chance to taint her honour here! No dancing in the fashion of Men was to be had here, no matter how much she desired it. Instead of just pressing her body against Jóli’s, she was stuck hopping around in a circle between ancient An whose breath smelled like a dung heap and clumsy Vestri with his wooden leg.

‘Dashing Young Blacksmith’ was what they called this dance. Well, Dís certainly spied a dashing young miner in the room, but while they had started out dancing with each other, that had not lasted long. Just like every other dwarven dance, this one was all about dancing in a group, about switching partners constantly. There were just not enough females in their race to make dancing as couples feasible. Dís’ eyes met Jóli’s over the heads of the crowd and he smiled at her, that gorgeous bright smile that lit up his large earth-brown eyes. She was not paying attention for just a moment and Vestri promptly stomped onto her foot.

They were finally back to dancing in the same circle and Jóli smirked at her. Oh those dimples! If he ever gave her a son, she hoped he’d have those same dimples. Focus, nobody is talking about sons here. But oh it was certainly nice to entertain the thought!

Jóli drew her in tighter than strictly necessary as he spun her around in the reel. She could feel the heat of his body and the strength of his arms, and it made her shiver.

“You seem distracted tonight, my princess,” he whispered into her ear and the smile she caught on his face was all challenge. She had no time to respond before she found herself back with some of the older dwarves, Jóli chuckling happily as he danced away in the other direction.

Finally, the caller announced Dís favourite dance, ‘Heat the Furnace’. She scanned the room for Jóli and when she found him, she made sure her smile was just as predatory as his. Game on!

They made their way towards each other, careful to join the two long lines of dancers at the same position. Dís did not want to dance this one with smelly old An! They were facing each other, a few steps apart, the third pair of at least thirty, the lines stretching all the way to the other side of the village hall. The first pair, right next to the small stage where the musicians had taken their seats, were Dís’ cousins Óin and Glóin. Next to Dís was fussy Dori with his beautiful braids. He tried to make polite conversation, but she only had eyes for Jóli, who cocked an eyebrow and signed ‘Ready?’ before shouting:

“Oi, Bofur, make it a fast one, mate, my lady needs some heat in her furnace!”

His friend, who was playing the tin whistle, chortled and nodded. Dwalin was next to him with his fiddle and had clearly had the one or the other drink because he answered Jóli’s request with a shrill wolf-whistle that had everybody laughing. Dís did not mind. The musicians raised their instruments and Glóin crossed his forearms to link hands with his brother. My, this was a fast tune! Bofur’s fingers were flying and Dwalin seemed determined to reduce his fiddle to sawdust. Bifur’s drum gave the rhythm and Dís started bouncing on her toes as she watched her cousins spin in a circle. Four, eight, twelve, sixteen beats, then Óin was linking arms with Dori’s partner for an anti-clockwise turn, before meeting Glóin again in the middle. Everybody was clapping and stomping their feet as the two dancers continued to make their way down the line, next taking Jóli and Dís for a spin. As soon as they had moved five or six pairs down, Dóri and his partner grasped each other’s wrists and started to follow them in the same manner. Dís was already flushed when it was time for them to commence dancing.

“Feeling the heat, pretty princess?” Jóli asked, shouting rather than whispering now to make himself heard over the noise.

She grasped his forearms, feeling the knotted muscles move. Swinging a pickaxe all day certainly had its advantages. They were both tapping along with Bifur’s beat. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and off they went. Jóli leaned backwards to increase his leverage and spun her around, making her fly into Balin’s arms with a shriek.

“You enjoy yourself, lassie,” her cousin chuckled, sending her off again to rejoin Jóli in between the lines of dancers.

On the next spin, he drew her in tight and, never losing his rhythm, kissed her on the tip of her nose, making the crowd around them whoop. Dís was too delighted to care, she could not have stopped now even if she had wanted to, her body being forced into the arms of the next dancer, who fortunately was a strapping young lad who caught her round the waist and managed to hand her back to Jóli just in time. Two could play this game. She was no weak old lady just yet, as she showed him when she drew him in, right shoulders touching, her arm across his chest and his across hers. She made sure to wriggle her breasts just right; a success if his delighted grin was anything to go by.

“Who is feeling the heat now?” she teased the next time they spun together. Jóli just grinned for the next few turns, then he held her close again, which was quite a feat with the momentum they had gained by now.

“I’ll make you melt with desire, my diamond,” he whispered, breath hot against her ear.

She did not even notice her other dance partners any more, they were just faceless figures that steered her towards Jóli. Her world quite literally revolved around him now.

She licked her lips teasingly at their next turn, showing him just the tip of her tongue, and watched his dazzling dimples deepen.

Eventually, they did reach the end of the line, both flushed and grinning broadly. Dís did not want this to end, and neither did Jóli. He did not leave it at the customary eight-beat turn, he just kept going, spinning her around faster and faster, forearms crossed, hands clasped tightly. He was strong, her dashing young miner, and he was all hers, brown eyes twinkling with mirth, blond mane flying.

“If you let go of me now...!” she yelled.

“Then what?” he shouted back, laughing, and of course he released his grasp and she felt his sweat-slicked fingers slip from her hands, the force of their dancing sending her flying across the room with a shriek. She crashed into the wall, as she had known she would, and a heartbeat later, a laughing Jóli collided with the stone next to her, no more able to control his momentum than she had been. He wrapped her in his arms, squashing her against his broad chest as he looked up at her through thick eyelashes. His braids were in disarray and sweat was dripping from his forehead as if he had been working in the forge all day, but Dís had never seen a more handsome dwarf.

“Warm you up a bit, my mithril?” he whispered, one hand around her waist, the other at the nape of her neck.

“Aye,” she breathed, and he dipped her head, raising himself on his toes to be able to reach her lips, puffing hot air against them, before he claimed her mouth. It was a sloppy kiss, more fire than finesse, as their tongues battled for dominance, snaking around each other, exploring the deep, warm cavern of the other’s mouth. Dís had to draw back eventually, gasping for air.

“Oh goodness,” she panted. “You have no idea how much I love you!”


	7. Agape

**Agape (the love of humanity, charity)**

 

There were those who talked when they thought he would not hear. Sometimes, he would put the ring on to go unseen and he would see them point at Bag End and witter on about “poor old Baggins”. Now Bilbo felt neither poor nor old, being as he was a rather well-to-do Hobbit in his prime, so he rightly viewed the mutterings as a sign of affection and kindly concern.

One beautiful day in early autumn he was walking down to the market and had just wished young Hamfast Gamgee a ‘Good Morning’, but as he continued down the lane, basket swinging merrily on his arm, he heard the gardener sigh and say to his wife:

“Poor old Master Bilbo, he must be so lonely, all on his lonesome in that big hole.”

“And a lovely big hobbit-hole it is,” Bell confirmed. “Just perfect to raise himself a nice little family!”

“That it is, that it is,” Hamfast answered. “But our poor Master Bilbo, he has never quite been himself again, not after that dreadful business he had with them Dwarves.”

Bilbo sped up a little to make sure he was well and truly out of earshot, as he was not one to want to listen in on unsuspecting folk, but their evident worry for his well-being made him smile.

 

Then there were those who paid no heed to whether or not he could overhear their comments. As he was trying to decide which apples would be the best for a pie, he heard the voices behind his back as clear as anything.

“Baggins still just cooking for himself, now is he?”

“Not likely to change now, he will be nearing eighty soon and has still shown nary an interest in a woman.”

“Ach, and I don’t know that I’d want him near any of my lasses, now that’s for sure. What with him not being all that respectable a gentle-hobbit and all. ”

“No need to lock your daughters up around old Baggins, my friend. No eye for the women, that one. Wonder what those Dwarves did to him...”

At that, Bilbo dropped the apple he had been holding and cheerily greeted the group of old gaffers that had been wagging their tongues like washerwomen. They were somewhat taken aback, but answered him with great courtesy nonetheless. Much might be said about the limitations of the Shirefolk, but they were always friendly and polite to a fault, truly admirable company to live amongst.

 

Then again, there were those who just said it straight to his face, unrespectable as he was. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was first and foremost among those.

“What are you doing to your father’s good work?” she asked of him. “Such a spacious and luxurious Hobbit-hole should not be left to gather dust, stuffed as it is with all of your mathoms and books! If you were a right gentle-hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, you would retire to a nice cottage in the countryside and leave Bad End to a good, respectable family.”

The snotty-nosed child that was clinging to her skirts made it quite obvious which family she might have in mind. Bilbo had always thought her quite evenly matched in unpleasantness with Otho, but ever since little Lotho had been born some two years ago, she had far exceeded her husband. She still bore a grudge against Bilbo for so inconveniently being alive and well when she had already started to auction off his property.

“I’m afraid I shall stay Master of Bag End for a good while yet, Mistress Lobelia” Bilbo replied, trying hard to remember his manners.

“But you shall need an heir eventually,” she pointed out, stabbing a finger at his chest while dragging young Lotho out from behind herself.

“And I shall find one, I assure you,” Bilbo answered, nodded his head in greeting and walked on to the chuckles of some onlookers who heartily agreed with his opinion of the Sackville-Bagginses. Most certainly his heir would not be Lobelia’s son. An heir. Bilbo remembered the heirs he had known and it made him so sad that he decided to not dwell on the matter, not on a sunny day such as this. Being an heir, in his experience that seemed a cruel and unjust burden for any one person.

 

He retreated to the Green Dragon for a quiet ale, but while he thoroughly enjoyed seeing many old friends and distant relations assembled there, the general hubbub of activity brought with it reminders of a time when he had been surrounded by others on a near-constant basis. Nowadays, he increasingly remained at home, no longer desiring the merriment and distraction a busy public house could provide. More than ever he retreated to his books and maps, and did nothing to keep the legends from sprouting and taking root, legends about mad Bilbo Baggins, the one who went with the Dwarves and now walked with Elves in the forest on bright moon-lit nights. He actually quite enjoyed those tales, and he thoroughly enjoyed the small dose of spice they added to life in the Shire. He was comfortable here and while his world was small and not known to breed surprises of any kind, from what he had seen of the unexpected, the adventurous, he did not begrudge the quietness of his life.

He was the master of a substantial hobbit-hole, hosted frequent functions and maintained correspondence with various relations throughout the four Farthings, but nevertheless, in the eyes of many, his life was miserable, for he had never taken a wife and had produced no progeny, making him a Hobbit who did not fulfil the promises he had held as a youngster. Then again, he thought of the one who had gone out to fulfil his destiny, to claim all that was his and become who he was born to be, and he remembered as well, what it had done to his dear friend.

He gathered his effects and headed home at that thought, walking back to Bag End at a steady pace. He barely even took the time to properly store all of his groceries in the pantry, just grabbed his pipe and tobacco-pouch and sat himself upon the bench in his garden. It was underneath a young tree, not even of age by Hobbit standards as it was just approaching twenty-five years since it had sprouted from an acorn, but it was strong and sturdy as any oak.

Bilbo thought back to Hamfast’s comment. Was he lonely because he lacked a spouse? He looked out over the beautiful land of the Shire, taking in the views, watching Hobbits bustle hither and thither as they would. They really were a merry folk, not one to accept change and new ideas easily, if they ever accepted them at all, but still a people that thrived on the simple pleasures in life. To them, his life was not perfect, and they tried to make it better the only way they knew how – the established way, the customary way, the way they had always lived their lives, by attempting to fill it with the comfort and warmth of a family.

Bilbo recognised the honesty and wisdom in that, but he did not feel the emptiness they all feared for him. In fact, he was utterly content with his life. He had a beautiful home and a large family that stretched to all corners of the Shire, and everywhere he went, tables were laden to welcome him. He found great joy in his own company, and contrary to Shire custom he actually delighted in being alone and shut away in his study. He also had wonderful companions further afield and he took solace in the bond they shared, even as the years wore on and the leagues stretched between them. Balin had visited him again a few years prior, bringing news of the others, of the renewed splendour of Erebor and promising to send Dwalin to the Shire soon, now that his brother’s services were no longer required by the Lady Dís. Bilbo blew a smoke ring and thought back to that day so long ago when he had suddenly found himself hosting a truly unexpected party of thirteen dwarves and one wizard. He had an enduring fondness for all those in his past; just thinking about them made him feel warm and treasured. He had been fortunate, as he had known great friendship, but most importantly, he was still fortunate, being surrounded as he was by those who cared for him deeply, though not always in the ways he might have preferred. It was a merry world that he lived in, one full of food and cheer and song.

“You mightn’t be perfect,” he said to no one in particular and yet to everyone who had played a part in his life up till now, whether they were Dwarves or Hobbits. “Not the smartest nor noblest, not the friendliest nor best behaved, but you are who you are and for that alone, I love you.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes this little series of love stories. Six dwarves and one hobbit have said ‘I love you’ and maybe you are going to say it too. Whichever type of love you are celebrating, receiving or giving today or any other day, I hope it dries your tears and makes you smile. I hope you enjoyed these drabbles that are just my small present to the fandom that has welcomed me so graciously. Especially if you are lonesome today, I sincerely hope that these glimpses of love are a bit of a virtual hug for you. Remember, Eros remains merely one of seven that are all powerful, significant and enjoyable in their own right.


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